


He Was Kind, Once

by IncreasingLight



Series: In Their Blood [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen POV, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, F/M, Inferiority complexes, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Lyrium abuse, Nightmares, Nothing explicit, People watching out for Cullen Rutherford, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regaining Memories, Strained family relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, but it flows better this way, cullen and samson are roommates, even when you don't want him to be, eventual Cullen Rutherford/Asta Trevelyan, in future chapters mentions of non-con/rape, it will get better though, look I told you it was dark, lyrium is a gateway drug, mention of suicidal behavior in future chapters, might be taking some minor liberties with the other of certain quests, repentant Cullen, right about now, samson as a corrupting influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/pseuds/IncreasingLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Cullen started to abuse Lyrium rather than use it professionally.  Takes place from before DA2, and into Inquisition, and overlaps, without repeating, my long(est) story, Andraste's Asta.  (So long.  I'm so sorry.  I need to edit it, and turn it into three parts.  At least.  Someday.)  This is far more about Cullen's decline into addiction, and then the recovery of his life before lyrium and the memories it stole from him.  Love story elements, because apparently I still can't write anything without that, but in my opinion, it does not drive the plot.</p><p>In my opinion, Cullen's comments at the Temple of Dumat about Lyrium bottles licked clean making you reconsider life choices come from experience.</p><p>This, like many of my other works, starts out dark but gets lighter.  The title has a double meaning.  I'm not talking about Samson, if that wasn't clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeguru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/gifts).



"No!  I won't!" He sat straight up, panting and reaching for the dagger under his pillow. The light of the single candle on the bedside table to next to him guttered in the wind from the open window, the stars outside cold and cruel. His roommate cursed and rolled over to face him, and Cullen cringed.

His nightmares had woken them both up again. He mentally cursed the lack of privacy that the barracks at the Gallows provided, and hoped that the sound hadn't traveled far.  "What the Void happened at Kinloch?" Samson asked him, a little cautiously, but with hardly any curiosity.

Cullen didn't reply.  His ears were still echoing with the ringing of the demons' insidious whispers.  He could only shake his head. Samson didn't want to know. Not really.

His roommate looked at him, with something approaching kindness for maybe half a minute, and finally shrugged in resignation.  "Fine.  I can't make you talk about it, kid. None of us like to talk about it.  But you're not the only Templar who gets nightmares."

Cullen looked up and met Samson's eyes, and saw compassion there.  His own eyes glazed over with something that might have been hope, on a less despondent man.  "Is that so?"

The dark-haired, rangy man nodded, paused, and came to some sort of a decision, reaching under his mattress with an easy, long-limbed grace, flipping him a little blue bottle.  "Catch."

"Lyrium?" Cullen rubbed the back of his neck.  "I've... already had my dose... thanks."  He moved to toss it back to the older Templar.

"Take it anyway," Samson leaned back against his pillow, stretched out long and lean, his muscles thick with veins like whipcords.  "It helps.  It stops the voices and starts the singing.  Trust me.  Would I lie to you?"  The older man smirked.  "I keep... a few... around for the bad nights.  Doesn't hurt anyone, after all, and if it means an early retirement... well, would that be such a bad thing?  At least if we forget, we're not going to have any nightmares, am I right?"

Cullen looked again at the vial, and uncorked it, still hesitant.  But surely, just the one extra dose wouldn't do any harm... It felt like ages since he had last slept well.  He tipped back the bottle, and drank it down.

And immediately coughed.  It was strong, stronger than the Chantry issue he was used to.  He raised his eyes, suddenly wary and concerned, to his roommate.  "This isn't from the Chantry, is it?"

Samson smiled, unconcerned, and failed to answer.  "Good stuff, isn't it?"  He replied, but Cullen could barely hear him.

Now, all he could hear was the singing, a pure collection of voices that transcended any Chanter or Choir that he had ever heard, any bard in any tavern.  He could almost understand.

Samson chuckled, and rolled over to face the wall.  "Sleep well, kid."

Cullen shook his head, transfixed with the sounds.

He didn't need to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame Coffeeguru. She encouraged me to explore this.

The second time, he hesitated, again. More lyrium meant losing more memories, more time, more emotions, a steep cost for a life already limited by his own choices. It was a slow process, but after only a few years of steady lyrium use, his childhood seemed distant, the memories as hazy as an almost forgotten dream, drawn back to the surface only by coincidence.

His sister had tracked him down. Again. Mia’s letters were full of worried scolding. He knew she meant the best, but she was a busybody of the worst kind.

She begged him to write back. To let them know he was alive - directly for once, instead of having to go behind his back to his superior officers. To reconnect with the three members of his family who had survived the Blight.

How could he possibly reconnect? What did he have in common with them any longer? What on Thedas could he say or ask about?

He had written, in the end. Not soon enough. Naturally. It was never soon enough for Mia.

 

_Dear Mia,_

_I’m fine. I’m doing the Maker’s work. They made me Knight-Captain. Here’s some money._

_Love,_

_Cullen_

 

The increased responsibility weighed on him. During his scheduled report to Meredith today, his Knight-Commander had looked at him, coughed politely, and increased his approved ration of lyrium. She didn’t have to ask how he was sleeping. If it hadn’t been obvious from the purple circles under his eyes, everyone around him already knew about the nightmares.

They very politely avoided the topic after the first time he had lost his temper. He wasn’t making any friends in Kirkwall. But that wasn’t his job, was it? He was there to guard mages, to make sure that no one was hurt. He was supposed to be a Champion of the Just. A protector of innocents.

When Samson knocked on his door, and invited him out to celebrate his promotion, which he had to turn down - his ‘brothers’ were his subordinates now, it wouldn’t be appropriate - and then flipped him another one of the special glass vials, as if prepared.

The blue made him ache with longing. Cullen’s stomach clenched, the muscles grating against each other painfully, remembering the strength, the metallic flavor as it slid down his throat, staring as if lost.

Maker, was it already singing? He could swear it was…

“Have your own celebration, then,” Samson had winked, as Cullen dragged his gaze away from the supernatural blue of the vial at the sound of the man‘s voice. The color blue shouldn’t make you thirsty, but he barely remembered a time when it didn‘t. “You know… they’ve got a new girl at the Blooming Rose. Has a weakness for Templars, she said last time. Bet she’d love a newly minted Knight-Captain. Show him a good time. She did this thing with her mouth…”

“I shouldn’t…” Cullen started, his heartbeat picking up.

“Shouldn’t do that,” Samson finished for him, with a smirk and a sigh. “Not a problem, mate. Probably why Meredith made you Captain over the rest of us that had been around a while. Andraste’s purity shines from your very asshole,” the good natured teasing sounded slightly… bitter, and Cullen looked back up from the all too attractive bottle, feeling the impulse to apologize, his face stricken with guilt. Had she overlooked better candidates? “None of that, Ser!” Samson pushed himself easily off the door frame. “I’ll go out with the lads then, if you won’t. Going to hit the Rose, maybe the Hanged Man, if the pickings are slim there. Enjoy your evening… Knight-Captain, Ser.”

With the sound of the quiet click of the door closing, Cullen uncorked the vial and drank to his promotion, his anxiety, and increased responsibilities.

And lost himself in the music.

Perhaps with this, he didn’t need friends any more than he needed sleep.

The music was company enough.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It happened more often. With every defeat, every mistake of the Order, every episode of lost temper in front of that… Hawke woman. She brought out the worst in him, every single damn time they met. Wilmod’s possession was only the beginning. Keran’s death, comforting the boys’ sister as he handed over the recruits belongings - noting the various items of contraband as he packed it up, but making sure it was hidden rather than confiscated, and tying up his letters from his sisters with string, to keep them together.

He wouldn’t want anyone throwing out his coin instead of seeing that it got back to Branson. And he would want Mia to know that he had read her many letters in the first place.

The number of Templars that the Order buried in Kirkwall… even Kinloch hadn’t been that bad. The number of letters he wrote to next of kin was the undertow hidden in the surf, enclosing each one in a parcel too small to contain a soldier’s life.

He tried to wash the memories away with the lyrium’s song. It helped, every time, for a time. Never long enough. But for a few hours he remembered purpose and duty, and something like devotion.

He sought his own sources now - it wasn’t hard. The Carta sold to many of the less reputable merchants in Lowtown. He could always find what he needed, if he looked. And there were always excuses to go into Lowtown. Apostates. Rumors of apostates. Street fights. The new Guard Captain’s standards were too high to hire just anyone, and the Guard was stretched too thin. Meredith was only too happy to lend her assistance, cement her control over the city that she ruled in all but name.

The night the Viscount and the Arishok died in quick succession, the flames flickering in his eyes as he was forced to defend the doomed city, pushed him to take three, plus his regular dose when he finally was free to leave. It was mainly the Qun’s mages that drive him to that point. Nothing but weapons being thrown into a losing battle. He felt something of a kinship with them, even as he laid them out.

He needed to forget, and it was impossible.

Perhaps tragedy followed him. First a Circle Tower, and now an entire City. Perhaps next, it would be all of Thedas.

His eyes were always ringed with purple now. He told Meredith when she criticized his appearance that he was working long hours. Maker knew there was enough work to merit it. His work got done, and done well, or at least well enough not to make her take issue with it. Well enough not to get demoted.

He deserved being taken to task, demotion, and more, even longed for someone to recognize what he deserved, but instead sent his sister slightly more money, and failed to answer a single letter. He didn’t spend it on anything, after all, except for lyrium. He always had enough money for the lyrium.

He had nothing to say. And still she wrote.

And then Meredith kicked Samson out of the Order. For the first time since Kinloch, he argued with his commanding officer. With about the same results. Naturally. When had any of his choices ever made a difference in how things turned out?

“The Mage corrupted the moral integrity of the Templar in question,” she countered, barely looking at him.

“Samson was delivering love letters,” Cullen breathed deeply, trying to stay calm. “Hardly encouraging blood rites at midnight, Knight-Commander.” His light tone was a miscalculation, he knew, as soon as the words had left his mouth. Inappropriate. Knight-Commander Meredith was not a woman who embraced levity about anything, especially blood magic.

His commander had blinked at him coldly, and he barely repressed a shiver. She was as cold as the Chantry’s statue of Andraste, looking down on all her petitioners, cruel and unresponsive, as she continued as if he had not spoken, “Ser Alrik has recommended that we make the mage Tranquil, and…”

“Ser Alrik?!” Cullen fought to control his reaction, knowing he was failing. “Do you know what they say about him?!”

“Do you have proof? Or do you just spend your free time listening to and sharing idle gossip?” The single eyebrow, raised almost to her coronet, was worse than any words, and Cullen shrunk under its regard.

He had no response.

“Find me proof, and I will act,” and with that he knew that his audience was over, as she turned away. He gathered his reports and saluted, marching stubbornly back through the open office door, swearing that he would try.

It was pointless. He hadn’t made _friends_ in Kirkwall, among his charges or among his brothers. The mages wouldn’t talk to him at all, shying away at his approach, some moving in front of others as if to fight him if he dared come any closer. It wasn’t proof, he argued with himself, regretting his ‘professional’ distance too late to make a difference. Perhaps they had heard the rumors about Kinloch? Mages were gossips, just like everyone else, he knew. Or perhaps they were victims of something more sinister, but without evidence…

There was no point in even asking the Templars. Either they would close ranks, agreeing with whatever Alrik was up to, or they would betray him to Meredith as a mage sympathizer. No one dared stand in the middle. It was only him - an island in a flooding river.

It was too late. The mage, Maddox, was made Tranquil, Samson was begging down by the docks, and from his visits to supply the man with the substance that kept him going, he suspected the former Templar (there was never any proof) was smuggling mages out of Kirkwall and into the Imperium for additional fixes. Supporting slavery as a means to an end.

It left a taste in his mouth that couldn’t be erased with lyrium.

He began to drag his feet when ordered to bring children into the Circle. Though his thoughts were fuzzy these days, with lack of sleep and overuse, he knew the Circle should be a place of protection. If a protector was abusing their charges… well, perhaps even Samson selling mages into the Imperium was preferable.

It was easier to ignore the Champion’s existence, as well as her friends, when he wasn’t so bloody efficient. There was always something more important to do, rather than collect children and take them in.

And one of the Champion’s friends was healing the poor, down in Darktown. Surely that made up for some of his worse choices, letting a few people that were serving man with their magic stay free? Though the blood mage in the Alienage was a bit… much. Luckily, the dwarf paid certain Templars well to ignore her. He got one tip on her for every five other leads. There were worse threats. He hoped. He hadn’t heard of the elf causing any trouble. And there were plenty of blood mages that were. Priorities made for a convenient excuse.

He turned a blind eye and ear to the Champion’s weak stories and excuses (lies) as she tried to spare escapees from Starkhaven, from Kirkwall. It made no difference - the mages involved were ignorant in the ways of the world, and got themselves recaptured more often than not.

More than once he justified Ser Thrask’s continuing contribution to the Order, fighting passively against Meredith’s increasing paranoia. They were shorthanded - it wasn’t difficult to claim they needed every sword.

None of it helped. The Champion killed Thrask on the Wounded Coast, when the Templar, driven to desperation over the death of his daughter, attacked her.

His fault. He should have relieved him of duty the first time Meredith had questioned his stability.

Another life sifting through his shaking fingers.

He drank to grief, and forgot whom he was grieving.  Then again, he didn't really have to choose.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tags do not lie. Triggers lie within.

Alrik was dead, his body barely recovered, and Hawke brazenly arrived at the Gallows, raving and waving papers about the Tranquil Solution, accompanied by that Darktown healer, the known maleficar from the alienage, and the dwarf, madly scribbling. Naturally. Who was Hawke without the equally annoying Varric?

His stomach clenched in recognition and horror at the healer. Anders?! How did… No. This was no place for him to recognize someone from Kinloch… he averted his eyes before he could do any more damage.

Was the Champion _insane_ or merely trying to drive him that far?

If that was the case, she was doing an excellent job of it.

That miserable night, Cullen swallowed four for the first time, desperately seeking absolution from the bottom of the vials.

He didn’t find it.

There was no justification found in his duty any longer.

The song rang false and jarring.  It echoed in his bones, made him retch hopelessly.

Cullen awoke, dull and still tired from the restless night, with the song taunting him instead of speaking of beauty unseen and a pattern in all things, or calling him out into boldness and purpose. He stared out the arrow slit in his chambers, Kirkwall’s filthy water glinting in the morning sun in diamond sparkles and casting wavy reflections on his stone walls. After dawn. He was late.

He drug himself out of bed, and nearly fell over, dizzy. A unread letter from Mia was on the table, delivered the previous night, but unobserved in his desperation for the (failed) miracle of the song, and with shaking hands, he opened it, forcing his eyes to focus.

 

_Dear Cullen,_

_I thought you might like to know Branson is getting married. A local girl, Grace. I’ve mentioned her before, if you actually read any of my letters. You reply so rarely, and when you do, you never answer any of my questions. So it’s a little hard to tell. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could come for the wedding, Branson would be thrilled. We all would be. They did make you Knight-Captain - surely you’re due some time off for good behavior?_

_Mind you, some of that desire is probably us wanting to brag about our brave Templar brother rising so quickly through the ranks. Can you blame us?_

 

He dropped the letter, and sunk to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest. Shuddering, silent sobs shook his body, the desk’s corner jutting into his back painfully.

He could never go home again. Not like this - a broken man who couldn’t sleep for his nightmares without…

He realized, setting his hand on the floor, and then pulling it back, puzzled, that he had sat on the remains of the glass vials, emptied and licked clean from the previous night, allowed to fall where they might in his single-minded need. They were naught but shards beneath him, and his palm was bleeding, warm and wet.

Maker’s Breath. He hadn’t even felt it.

He couldn’t feel anything.

What was wrong with him? He shifted sideways, and off the glass shards, still covered with drops of blue, his hands shaking, cutting himself a few more times before he gathered them up, and threw them away.

He made his way to the basin in the corner, and bathed his hands, and then checked his feet, carefully, no longer able to trust his nerves to warn him of pain.

It was only with the first touch of water that his hands stung, fighting harder against the natural element than the poison he drank daily.

This couldn’t continue.

But how could he stop?

 

* * *

 

 

His desire to change had warred with his body’s cravings. Cullen could barely remember before the blue now, a shaky vial in his hand, and the previous four lined up in a precise row on the desk before him, bottles licked clean, as deep as he could get his tongue to reach.

As Knight-Commander he regulated his own lyrium doses. He had made damn sure there was always enough, the past few years. Enough to block the screaming, the fires, the begging voices of parents and children, the red lightening and swirling stones defying gravity, and after the Chantry, the sobbing stories that occupied his days and haunted his nights, of broken people and the scent of ashes.

Always ashes.

He didn’t hear the song every night any longer. Sometimes four was only enough to let him sleep, and not quite wake from the nightmares. Five might be enough, tonight. Enough to hear the lovely, ethereal song that was just barely starting to register on the lower end of his hearing.

After four bloody vials. Licked clean.

“Andraste’s Mercy,” Cullen wasn’t sure if he was praying or begging the Maker to curse him. The prophetess had not died of old age, after all. Her mercy had come from the sword.

Four vials, licked clean. And a fifth in his hand singing to him to take it and be absolved from his myriad sins. A sword sounded better. Better than a world where he couldn’t remember the sound of his sister’s voice as she scolded him, or the taste of his mother’s shortbread, or the sound of acceptance in his old roommate’s voice as he offered blue salvation in that first cursed vial. It would be better to remember all of it, the kind of monster he was, for at least the final moment as a blade pierced his flesh and emptied him entirely of his lifeblood.

It would be poetic, perhaps, that he would die this way, by bloodletting, after all these years, and without a single blood mage around him. His would be the last sacrifice demanded from Kirkwall.

Shaking hands set the still full vial down, lined up precisely with the others, a gentle clink the only sound they made as they touched. Shuddery breaths gathered his courage into his lungs. The same quaking hands pulled out his desk drawer to reach the dagger within…

And next to the dagger, almost forgotten, was the coin, Andraste nearly worn away with age. The one Branson had given to him before… before everything. He stared at it, hollow eyed. Proof that he used to be more than the lyrium. A brother, loved and treasured, the evidence before him.

From the open window (always open - he couldn’t take even the expanse of Meredith’s large office without air moving) a voice drifted up. A cultured, demanding, Nevarran voice that insisted on seeing the Knight-Commander ‘this instant’, in a tone that brooked no argument, despite the hour.

All Cullen felt was irritation. Was he forever doomed to be so busy that even his own surrender to the inevitable was going to be interrupted? He braced himself awkwardly against the window frame, wavering in his fight not to take the final bottle of lyrium, as he watched a woman in Seeker armor shoving an all too familiar dwarf up the Gallows steps.

His stomach sank beneath the weight of the lyrium already taken. Seekers only arrived at a Circle when something had gone wrong.

When Varric came to the Gallows inevitably everything went wrong. He lost his temper, said incredibly stupid things in front of people that mattered. Things went missing - whole shipments, sometimes. Stories drifted around the barracks for weeks about the Champion, each of them more ridiculous than the next. Sometimes, people showed up dead, hours, days, weeks later.

The combination of a Seeker and the _dwarf_ was the stuff that his all too frequent nightmares were made of.

There was no denying that something was wrong all over Thedas. There weren’t enough Seekers anywhere to set it all right again. But he had been trying, working with the City Guard, struggling to find order, clean up mistakes, establish some kind of normalcy…

He had been trying, he realized, his eyes slightly wider, trapped in his thoughts like a fly in sap, drowning as it clung to him. He had been…

He hadn’t started to despair until the first sinkhole had opened. Thedas itself had been trying to swallow Kirkwall whole, it seemed, with stone crumbling from beneath them. Darktown had been evacuated - too late for most of the residents, thankfully fewer, as it was easier to squat in the empty houses in Hightown.

Who was he to fight the very stone beneath them? The foundation they all trusted to remain solid under their feet? Especially when the first sinkhole had opened to reveal a cave passage beneath the Gallows, filled with the bodies of mages, by their clothing and the odd ring declaring their college affiliation. Mages that had tried to escape Meredith’s madness and his own neglect. And failed in the attempt, whether from spiders, or Templars, or other intervention.

There were so many dead.

He should have done more. Fought harder, made Meredith _do_ something, hold Alrik for questioning, fought for the sort of proof that an attacker locked up might have pulled out of his victims, with reassurance and kindness. His professional detachment had killed mages. Killed Templars. Killed… people.

They were all people, whatever their gifts or curses. His own talents were certainly a curse.

He dragged himself back to the present with difficulty. Getting lost in the memories was a mistake. The Champion had killed Ser Alrik, he reminded himself desperately. It had happened years ago. Years. Kinloch was even further in the past. Whether the monster he had become could be redeemed was for a wiser person than he to attempt. Did anyone even care to try?

He rather thought he knew the answer to that question. No one cared for the Knight-Commander in Kirkwall. There was an established pattern.

He snapped back to the present again - were his lapses in memory and time getting worse?

He shoved the drawer - the dagger still resting inside it - away from him abruptly, as if shutting his waking nightmares away with its contents. He would meet with this Seeker and then…

His mind stuttered to a close. Was he honestly just going to meet with her, answer her questions, and then…

The dagger was in the drawer, next to the coin.

Was that what he wanted?

Oblivion, yes. The sweet forgetfulness of the lyrium song, drowning out every other consideration but its noise. He wanted that, more than anything. But death? There was no place for him at the Maker’s side. No Andraste to forgive his betrayal of her message.

He was given no time to decide. Rylen showed the Seeker into his office, with an arch knowing glance at the lyrium vials, empty and full, still on his desk, and closed the door, without a word.

Rylen was a good man. A good friend.

It was important to remember he had one friend. Someone who understood why he was doing what he had to. Samson had long ago disappeared into the seedy underbelly of Kirkwall. Perhaps he had left entirely - he wouldn’t be the first. The Gallows was all but empty - precious few Templars cared enough about their vows to the Maker to remain - most long since packed up to join their brothers in the Templar resistance, or gone home, if they had one to return to.

There were no loyalist mages in Kirkwall. That went without saying. His vows were pointless, but he had no where to go but here.

Mia’s letters had kept coming, begging him to come home. Pushing the lie that he still had a place there, with them.

With a narrow eye that took in his preoccupation, the Seeker lunged into her interrogation, with all the skill of a trained fencer, and Cullen was forced to parry, to answer precisely, as in depth as he could remember. No truth was too harsh, from the little he knew from the time before he arrived in Kirkwall, regarding Meredith’s sister, to the fate of the Champion.

The only disappointment he sensed from her was when he admitted freely that he had let the Champion leave the city. Had failed to detain her.

With that the Seeker had shouted, and he had flinched. The dwarf - oddly quiet for once - was watching, arms folded across his perpetually bare chest with absolutely no expression whatsoever.

It was dark, by the time they finished. Cullen was sitting behind his desk by then, his head in his hands, and the Seeker had risen, and pulled the dwarf up with her.

“We will talk to you again tomorrow,” she announced primly.

“Hey, Seeker, unless that’s the imperial ‘we’, count me out, I have things that need…”

The Seeker sneered in the dwarf’s general direction, “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Varric. You will run, and I need you to give your testimony to the Most Holy.”

“Well, shit,” Cullen dropped his hands to his lap when he heard the dwarf mutter those two words, and their eyes met in rueful recognition and agreement.

Perhaps there would be an Exalted March after all, if the Seeker was here at the request of the Divine. A Council to determine the need for one, if peace could not be made by words alone. He had dared to hope…

An Exalted March would end well for no one. Thedas was seemingly unable to learn from history.

All the same, after she left, he didn’t take the lyrium, and didn’t open the drawer. Instead, he looked out the window, at the dark water of the Kirkwall Harbor and the even darker walls of the City of Chains.

He didn’t need to sleep.

Sleep was for the worthy. And he didn’t deserve to forget.

He never took the last vial.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The next day started briskly. He rose from his sleepless bed, combed his hair, jerking the comb through the snarls and echoing them with a few of his own, more verbal ones.

He polished his armor, and his sword. He dressed, and donned the armor, determined to make a better impression, seeking control over his appearance, since he didn’t have it over his fate. He knew all too well that was in the Seeker’s hands.

And when he finished, he pulled open the drawer and pulled out the coin, and slipped it inside his glove, so that he could feel it, ridged and cool against his skin, held fast by the glove. Perhaps, with that, he would be able to focus. He went to work, buried himself in it, and refused to think about the dagger, so close to his hand.  He cleared his desk but for the most minor of items, ones that his successor, if there was one, would be able to manage without trouble.  He hoped it would be Rylen, that his association with his former Knight-Commander wouldn't taint his excellent service.

The Seeker was early, but he was ready.  She shoved Varric through the door, her scowl dark and foreboding. Cullen stiffened, resting his shaking hands on his sword. Missing the extra vial of lyrium had… consequences. Ones he could disguise, perhaps, with careful movements.

The Seeker looked at him and snorted. Cullen felt himself flushing, feeling how obvious his pitiful attempts truly were in the face of this observant woman.

“Your stories correlate with Varric’s,” she announced without preamble or greeting. “And I confess myself impressed.”

Cullen’s jaw dropped, and his hand slipped off the edge of his grip. “I’m sorry, did you say…”

Varric stifled a chortle when the Seeker pivoted her glare to pin him in his chair.

“You’ve done an exemplary job, working jointly with the Guard. You are well on your way to restoring order here. The Templar Order could not ask for a better representative anywhere, much less in Kirkwall.”

Cullen shifted his glance to Varric. Was he responsible for this response? They had never been friendly, exactly, but…

“Don’t look at me, Curly,” Varric lifted his hands to deflect blame. “I just told the truth. So did you, apparently.  Who would have thought?”

The Seeker held out her hand, “Forgive me. I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker and Right Hand of Divine Justinia. And with her approbation, I wish to offer you a position.”

Cullen merely blinked. “Why?”

Varric coughed, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Curly. Gets you out of Kirkwall, whatever it is. You look like you could use a change of scenery.”

“No. Answer me. Why?” Cullen was growing angry, his hands working in the gloves, the coin a solid resistance against making a fist. Was she joking?

“You held Kirkwall together with a bare minimum of help, through sheer will alone,” The Seeker was earnest now, and plaintive. “You must have heard of the Divine’s Conclave - were you planning to attend as Kirkwall's Templar representative?”

“What’s the point?” Cullen snarled, shocked into candidness. “It’s going to fail. This war will never end.”

“And there is no need for a Templar presence in Kirkwall any longer,” the Seeker fished in a satchel, weighed down by what looked like several large books, and pulled out a beribboned scroll, sealed with the Chantry's sunburst. “This is a writ from Divine Justinia requesting that any loyal Templars meet her at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or if they prefer, the White Spire in Val Royeaux. But for you, I have a choice.” She seemed to be holding her breath, and once again, all Cullen wanted to ask was why. Why him?

“I want to leave the Order,” Cullen cut in before she could say anything, before he even knew what he was going to say. Varric’s double take was beautiful, but he was too busy wincing to appreciate it, “That is…”

“Done,” the woman’s lips twitched. “The role she wishes you to take is independent of the Order.  It requires you to stand between mages and Templars.  Much as you have done here.”

“The men that remain here - I want them to have the means to leave Kirkwall,” Cullen demanded. They were loyal, good men, almost every one. And as for the rest… “Some are older, and need caring - there’s no place for them in Kirkwall. Not any longer. Not since the Chantry…”

The Seeker nodded, a gradual expression of deep respect crossing her face.

“What is this position?” Cullen asked cautiously.

“Divine Justinia is preparing forces - joint forces - in case the conclave should fail,” the Seeker answered precisely. “I would like you to command her armies if she deems it necessary to declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Varric erupted into amusement. “Shit, Curly, if you don’t take the job, I will. Talk about the story of a lifetime. Hawke would die of jealousy. Commander of the fucking Inquisition. Beats being Knight-Commander of precisely nothing, any day.”

“Why… why would you…” Cullen swallowed, struggling to find his words. “Seeker Pentaghast, my entire Templar career has been one of repeated failures. Look at me.” He made no effort to hide his shaking now. She had to realize…

The woman narrowed her eyes, and held out her palm. “Give me your wrist,” she ordered.

Absent-mindedly, Cullen held out his hand, and she stripped off his glove, making no note of the coin still in his palm. She closed her eyes and opened them a moment later.

“You have a great deal of lyrium in your system, and yet you shake and sweat,” she observed, handing his glove and coin back with military precision, not even glancing at the supposed contraband the coin indicated. “Addiction to lyrium is expected, but you have an advanced case, one beyond your years. With the Inquisition, we will provide your lyrium, and I will monitor you to ensure your intake does not exceed…”

“No,” Cullen’s mouth spoke for him again, and he tried to suck the word back in far too late.

“Excuse me?” The Seeker blinked, her voice harsh, but her face reflecting a desperation that he didn‘t understand.

“No, I said,” Cullen propped himself on his desk to stop the shaking. Was he really going to… he clenched his fist around his coin. He didn‘t deserve to forget. He needed to remember that. “If I join… this Inquisition, I want to quit taking lyrium entirely.”

Varric whistled, “Curly, that’s suicide. Ain’t it, Seeker?”

The Seeker glared at the dwarf, failed to reply, and then narrowed her eyes again. “Not necessarily,“ she professed reluctantly. “With enough willpower, it can be done,” she nodded. “I will monitor the lyrium in your body, if that is the price of your agreement.”

“I want you to watch me,” Cullen urged her further. “My behavior. My decisions. If at any time I am unfit for service, I want you to relieve me of duty and replace me entirely, before I can cost more lives.”

“I…” Cassandra hesitated. “Knight-Commander, I do not…”

“Better do it, Seeker,” Varric sat back in his chair, wide eyed with respect. “Curly here isn’t the patient type. You want him in charge? You do what he asks.” Cullen stared fixedly at the surface of his desk.

Irritated, the Seeker sighed, “Very well, I will determine whether or not you are competent to continue your work. Is there anything else?”

“I…” Cullen raised his eyes to meet hers. “I would prefer to keep my… condition a secret.”

“My lips are sealed,” Seeker Pentaghast said, dryly, with an emphasis on the 'my'.

Cullen shook his head in wordless negative. “Then no, Seeker Pentaghast.”

The Seeker snorted again, “And now you’re meek. Very well, then. I wish to leave within the week. Would you like me to inform your men?”

“The news will come better from you,” Cullen admitted, and rubbed the back of his neck, a headache starting that promised to get a lot worse in the days to come. “I’m… not much of a public speaker, really. There aren‘t many left, in any case, and I command no particular loyalty.”

Varric chuckled again, but with the Seeker’s critical look, lifted his hands again, “Hey, I didn’t say anything about your public speaking skills, Seeker. Trust me.” His rakish grin drew a disgusted noise from the woman’s lips, curled back.

“Very well,” she finished. “Let us make the announcement first thing tomorrow, and then we will make travel arrangements. Come, Varric, we have taken enough of the Knight-Commander‘s time,” and the dwarf hopped out of his chair with an air of futility.

“See you around, Curly,” the dwarf sighed with a random, defeated wave. “On the boat, if nothing else. My jailer here is keeping me around for her personal amusement. No doubt we‘ll be on the same boat to Ferelden. Least we‘ll get to see that Temple. That‘s gotta be worth something, right? See the sights… and hey! You‘ll get to head home! Have any family close to this ‘Haven’ place?”

Another disgusted noise was chased by a firm, “Varric!” before Cullen could attempt to form an answer.

“Like I said,” Varric raised his eyebrows. “We’ll talk later. You strike me as a person who spends too much time with a serious expression on their face, Curly. Maybe this ‘Haven’ will be just what you need. Break you out of your shell. Maybe you’ll meet somebody?” Varric’s wink was… incredibly irritating, and his behavior had not improved since the Champion had left Kirkwall, leaving him with what appeared to be no one to talk to.

“Varric!” Quick bootheels marched back down the corridor in double-time.

“Yeah, yeah,” Varric drawled. “I’m coming, Seeker. Be seeing ya, Curly.” And the dwarf saluted, fist over his heart. As if… he respected him.

Cullen made his way to the front of his desk, his mind spinning, for once not from the lyrium.

Perhaps the Maker had a sense of humor.

Because for some reason, he was going… home.

He pulled out a sheet of paper, and addressed it to Mia Rutherford, in South Reach, Ferelden.

　

_Dear Mia,_

 

He paused. For once there was something to say, but he couldn’t think of how to say it.

 

 _I can no longer serve the Templar Order. As a result, I’m leaving Kirkwall. I’m joining the Divine at the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes_ , _apparently as the tentative Commander of a newly formed Inquisition. I'll stay busy. Don’t worry._

_I’ll send money as soon as I can._

_Stay safe._

_Love,_

_Cullen_

　

He folded the page into itself, and as he rang his bell for someone to take the letter to the docks, there to catch a ship to Ferelden, he couldn’t help but scoff at the dwarf‘s words.

'Meet someone?' The dwarf must be an incurable romantic as well as a rogue.

Who would want him?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a slight uplift. Things get more cheerful from here on out. Well, sort of.
> 
> I've decided to celebrate my birthday month by posting whenever I feel like it, instead of on the staid and regulated schedule that I've been trying to maintain, so the several projects I have going will likely be updating fairly often. Yes, I'm choosing to celebrate turning 40 with posting fanfiction with gleeful abandon. It's my party, let me introvert in peace, I say. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

The trip from Kirkwall was made up of nightmares and vomiting, Cullen curled into a berth - too small for his frame - around a chamber pot.

Cullen was fairly certain that he should just jump overboard. The sea wasn’t that rough, the dwarf reassured him, but his legs weren’t answering to his willpower any longer, even if he could manage to maneuver himself upright and up out to the deck. It was a hopeless cause, like so many he had thrown himself behind over the years.

He hadn’t eaten anything beyond hardtack and stale water for a week when Varric came down and perched himself on the berth opposite his, normally occupied by Cassandra. The dwarf insisted on coming down and ‘cheering him up’, usually accomplished by making him more miserable, babbling on about various things the Champion had gotten up to in her time in Kirkwall. Stories, he supposed, but there were no beds of dragon bones here, just a rather normal woman who happened to be a thorn in his side.

The woman was a menace to society. It was a wonder she was still alive, with all the things Varric claimed she had done. Cullen suspected him of lying, but oddly, the stories matched up with what little he did know.

He was fairly certain the haunted mansion was a joke, however. However oddly red lyrium acted and influenced the world around it, he was fairly certain that Varric had not killed that many demons on his own, no matter how exemplary his crossbow was. And the question remained: where was Hawke while all of that was occurring? Standing in the doorway cheering, while her best friend played target practice on floating vases?

On second thought, that sounded like something she would do.

The dwarf’s voice droned on, giving him something to focus on besides his rolling stomach and aching head. Telling him about that maleficarum in the Alienage that he called ‘Daisy’, laughing about elves frolicking in the woods and Fenris‘ disgust at the very idea, joking about Hawke’s need to keep moving - leading to stealing tattoo dye, to investigating random crates, to sifting through rubble - a jest that Cullen did not find funny in the least. This then, was the answer to the major and minor disappearances from the Gallows over the years. More like a petty thief than a Champion. But Varric kept going, discussing, as if he cared, the history of their merry band of misfits, carefully skirting around where any of them might be at this moment, aside from Aveline and the pirate, the former safely hard at work, and the latter far at sea and calling herself an Admiral.

Cullen had worked closely with Aveline and her husband in the past few years. They were good people, and probably not responsible for the poor quality of the rest of their company. When he said as much to Varric, pushing the admission out reluctantly, the dwarf laughed.

“Yeah, if Aveline and her first husband hadn’t been thrown into Hawke’s path when they were all fleeing the Blight, no doubt Aveline’s life would look vastly different. Or… you know, they’d all be dead and the Qun would run Kirkwall. But maybe Flemeth would have come through for Hawke anyway… I explored that, in the book. It’s best not to spell out the question of fate, you always leave it up to the reader.”

“Flemeth,” Cullen grunted in disbelief. “The Witch of the Wilds?”

“I didn’t make it up, Curly,” Varric insisted, raising his hands in defense. “Flemeth, Asha’bellanar, Witch of the Wilds… whatever you want to call her. She swooped down and saved Hawke’s sweet ass from the Blight itself, got her and her family and friend past the horde and clear to Gwaren.” He sighed, “Why do people always insist I make up the good parts?”

Cullen didn’t comment, trying too hard to keep himself from gagging at the mention of swooping. It was too accurate a description for the way his whole body seemed to rise and fall with the movement of the ship, his stomach several moments behind his spinning head.

Varric sighed, and shoved himself off the edge of the bunk. “I’ll let you rest. Just wanted to let you know that we were going to be docking tomorrow, before you got me off track with your keen conversational skills.”

Cullen bit back his comment that the dwarf didn’t need his help. Because truly, he was grateful. When Varric or Cassandra didn’t come, it left only Rylen to visit him. And the other man smelled of lyrium in a way that was nearly the end of his resolve, gut clenching need taking control of all his thoughts. If he could stand, he would have already given in.

Rylen seemed to realize, and came less often. It made for loneliness. Even while he was in charge, he was surrounded by people, if isolated by his rank. He felt forgotten, down here in the tight cramped bowels of the ship, the air too close and the room too dark, aside from the green glass prism that refracted the limited light.

Refracted light was better than nothing, but if he never had to travel on a ship again, it would be too soon.

***

He stumbled off the gangplank a full day later, the light too bright despite the rainy weather, into the docks of Amaranthine, gagging again at the strong stench of fish entrails and… he smelled the crate from Orzamaar before he saw it. Lyrium. Naturally.

Cassandra pulled him away briskly (was it on purpose?) to find horses and an inn, her efficient nature not willing to waste another minute with delays, and announcing her intent to leave tomorrow. A messenger dressed in an orange and green uniform found her, and she cursed briefly before marching off, expecting him to stumble after her, leaving the crate far behind, but not quickly enough.

He hoped it wasn’t supposed to travel with them. He could almost hear it, and his stomach ached for lack of what it contained. In its presence, everything, including his resolve, seemed weaker, less powerful. It made even his breathing seem less real.

Though standing in a puddle, lost in the streets of his home country, he reflected that dreams were never this… damp. There was a flash of regret of the determination that brought him back here. Why had he come back again? This wasn’t his home any longer. He had lost too much of himself, seen too many people die.

And then the messenger, after finishing with Cassandra, handed him a letter. He scanned it and sighed. Tracked down again. He knew he hadn’t told her where his ship was landing. He hadn’t known himself. How did Mia do this? She was better than any mage hunter.

Perhaps the Templars had recruited the wrong sibling.

“Bad news, Curly?” Varric grinned at his elbow. “Old lover found you already?” The Seeker’s disgusted noise made his lips twitch. The noise had been more and more frequent as Varric grated on the woman’s nerves.

“No,” Cullen answered curtly, refusing to give the dwarf further ammunition in his endless conversation attempts.

“Family, then?” Varric was incorrigible. “Didn’t you say your family was near Haven? Did you tell them you‘d stop by?”

The Seeker winced with chagrin, “Commander, you did not say…”

“They aren’t nearby,” Cullen interrupted. “South Reach. Interior of the country, near the Brecilian Forest. Opposite direction. Too far to go out of our way, Seeker Pentaghast.” He tucked the letter into his armor, unopened and unread. “We should not delay. There is too much to accomplish for family visits.”

The Seeker nodded approvingly. “Quite. And you have to rid yourself of your Templar armor, Commander. No doubt Leliana and the Ambassador will have their own opinions of your… attire, but this is a good opportunity to find yourself something well made and serviceable before they can get their hands on you. Amaranthine is likely the only settlement of any size we will pass through on our way West.”

Cullen nearly groaned. He was in no shape for shopping. “Maker preserve me,” he muttered, despairing.

Varric’s face had lit up. “I’ll go with you, Curly! I know a few people, and a fabulous little tavern…” he was pulled in a direction. “We’ll meet you back at the inn, Seeker.”

“Commander!” Seeker Pentaghast called at him. “Don’t lose the dwarf.”

Varric pouted mockingly. “That desperate for the pleasure of my company?”

“I don’t trust you further than I can throw you, dwarf,” the woman swore.

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” Varric grumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Cullen to hear. He got the distinct impression that the dwarf was talking about himself. Surely not. “Come on, Curly. We’ll find a barber, too. I could use a shave, lest people start to ignore my chest hair. It’s my best feature. You never know when you might want to impress someone, and I bet the Carta sent dwarves to the Conclave.  Too much business opportunity to pass up.”

Cullen blanched and lifted his hand to his hair, wishing desperately for a helm. The wet had made the curls riot, and then form into neat corkscrews, and people… people were staring. At him.  His eyes flashed to the passerby in panic, and then back to Varric.

Varric chuckled at the gesture and attention, “Ah, Fereldans. You’re probably the best looking thing they’ve seen since the Blight ended. Welcome Home, Curly.”

“Don’t mock me, dwarf,” but he was flushing in embarrassment. Eyes had always followed him, but… such attention was unwelcome.

“Nonsense! Even Hawke loved your hair. Tried to get me to write poems about it and deliver them anonymously. Told her I didn‘t swing your way, and to get Isabella to do it.” Varric shoved open a door into a tidy establishment with scissors and a razor crossed on a hanging board outside. “There we go. Hop up, Curly. My treat.”

In the welcome pleasure of the shave and haircut, Cullen found time to request if the barber had a straightening potion. It was dear, but Cullen bought enough for several months, and swore he would make it last, more than slightly relieved that he would not be stared at for that reason, at least.

The armorer was close, and they happily bought his Templar armor in favor of outfitting him with a new set, slightly nicer, as Cassandra had insisted. Cullen winced, preparing to hand over all of his remaining funds to cover the balance, but Varric shoved him aside.

“From what I hear, this Ambassador is Antivan, Curly. Save your coin to send your sister. I’ll cover this, and get a receipt so the Seeker can cover the expense. You can’t just wear any old armor, in front of an Antivan. Fashion conscious doesn‘t even start to describe them.  I should tell you about this elf assassin I met once, while traveling with Hawke...”

His protests went unheeded, and he reluctantly found himself in the possession of a very nice set of armor and a Mabari helm, the designs thrown in for free for whatever blacksmith the Inquisition could convince to relocate to the Temple. He was left staring at a coat on display while Varric negotiated a lower price. He put it on immediately. Ferelden was considerably colder than the Free Marches. It would take a few days to acclimatize, and he… well, he enjoyed the fur. No one wore fur in Kirkwall.

It had been awhile since he had worn something even slightly Fereldan in style. It felt… nice. Almost like he belonged here again.

“How did you know I have a sister?” His mouth was working without his knowledge again, now that they were back out on the street, his forehead wrinkled, trying to remember if he had told the dwarf so much. He didn’t talk to anyone about Mia, or Branson, or Rosalie. It was safer, that way. These days there were many mages out carrying grudges. He didn’t want them to come to harm.

“I can read, Curly,” Varric sassed. “Write, too. You might have heard that, actually, very popular book, my Tale of the Champion. Read it? You’re in it…”

“Maker’s Breath, no.” Cullen paled further, his lips pressing together until they were nearly grey. “Is that why… why you’re doing all… this? Because you put me…”

“You’re looking a little peaked, there.” Varric frowned for the first time. “And the answer is no. I pay my debts, give credit where credit is due, but you weren’t that important a character. Peripheral, at best. No, I owe you -,” the dwarf sighed deep, and let the words wash out of his mouth, “I owe you for letting Hawke get out of town. You didn’t have to do that, and we both know it.”

“It was all I could do,” Cullen immediately tried to argue.

“You’re a lousy liar. Ever play Wicked Grace?”

“No,” Cullen lied. It had been a very, very long time. He barely remembered the rules.

“Don’t take it up again,” Varric advised, and grinned wide at the clapboard above them both. “And we’re here. 5 silvers says the Seeker is surprised you didn‘t lose me.  Not that she'll be in the tavern when she could be hacking something to pieces in the courtyard.”

“I don’t take sure bets,” Cullen answered, a little dryly, his mouth twisting up.

Varric’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, so there is a sense of humor under the armor. You had me wondering. Feeling better, then?”

Cullen had to stop and think. He didn’t feel better, exactly, but… “The fresh air, I think,” he admitted. “The ship was very… close.” The memory made him sweat. “I don’t like… tight places. Bad… memories.” He breathed a little heavier, his nose beading with sweat.

Varric stared, and then pulled him through the door into the tavern. “Shit, Curly, you’d better have a seat. Two ales!” He called out, and Cullen found himself with a mug in front of him, almost supernaturally quickly. “And… and some of whatever’s hot,” he confided in the barmaid. “My friend here just got off a ship, and he’s no sailor. Rough trip.”

“Right away,” the buxom maid answered, swinging her hips in Cullen’s direction without reaction. Pouting, she retrieved a platter of bread and a crumbly white cheese, swinging it down in front of him. Cullen stared at it in longing.

“Yep, you’re Fereldan, all right,” chortled Varric. “Never met a Fereldan that didn’t love… did I ever tell you about the time Rivaini and I escorted King Alistair over half of Northern Thedas? That was quite a story…”

Cullen picked up a wedge and nibbled, and then closed his eyes. Without a word he twisted sideways and vomited onto the floor, heaving helplessly as his stomach emptied all too quickly. He came back up, blotchy and panting, already apologizing to the help, “I’m sorry, I…”

“Happens all the time,” the maid laughed. “Never got so much as a sorry out of it either. I’ll clean it right up, and get you some water,” she winked at him, brown curls bouncing on her shoulders as she went for the cleaning supplies.

“She likes you,” Varric didn’t even blink, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Gonna go for it? We‘ve got time, and I'll delay the Seeker if…”

“What?! NO! I just…” Cullen protested. “I couldn’t possibly…”

“You didn’t take those sort of vows, did you?” Varric looked disgusted, apparently remembering something - or someone - else.

“Of course not!” Cullen’s voice was far too loud, he realized and he tempered it quickly. “It’s a common misconception that Templars are required to be…” the maid was back, with a steaming bowl of stew, overcooked and bland smelling, “celibate.” He finished helplessly, with impeccable timing. “It’s… a personal decision.”

The maid backed away, flushing and retreated to the other side of the tavern, where several sailors immediately welcomed her return, slapping her ass and propositioning her openly. She shoved one away, laughing at the apparently welcome attention, and stole the man's mug for a refill.

Naturally Varric laughed at him, and shoved his ale closer. “Let’s drink to that, then, shall we?” He raised his tankard. “To possibilities, Curly.”

Cullen huffed impatiently, and raised his mug, “Very well. To possibilities.”

They were rather late getting back to their room, Varric attempting to teach him some silly song about a nug in every port, while Cullen stumbled for a reason other than the lyrium or his sea legs, and laughed at nothing for the first time in what felt like forever, trying to explain why exactly, Mabari were more like members of the family than, say, a herd dog.

It didn’t help that he didn’t quite understand it himself. His family had never owned a Mabari. Several herd dogs, though. And now Varric knew more about his family’s work animals than Cullen had realized he remembered.

Cassandra was not pleased when they finally stumbled through the door. “What have you done, dwarf? We leave first thing in the morning.” She eyed his armor with approval and Cullen smiled sheepishly. “Never the less, I’m glad you could afford quality, Commander. I doubt that even Lady Montilyet will object to that, even with the fur.  Practical and warm.”

“You can pay me back,” Varric quipped, still completely sober, as Cullen fumbled with the unfamiliar straps and hung the pieces as precisely as his slightly numb hands could manage. They hung crooked, and Cullen stared at them, not sure where he had packed his polish, and sniggering at the idea of not knowing exactly where everything was.

“You… paid?” Cassandra seemed surprised.

“Better that Curly save his funds, and I know the Divine’s good for it,” Varric shrugged, smirking at her with a wink. The Seeker flushed irritably. “He’s got to make a good impression.”

The Seeker deflated. “True. But given that need to make a good impression - did you have to get him drunk?”

Cullen frowned. Was he drunk? He hadn’t been drunk since before the Blight.  What was the name of that inn on the shores of Lake Calanhad?

“Better than drinking alone, Seeker, and the man was headed in that direction. He hasn‘t been home for ten years,” Varric countered. “And he needed to loosen up. He just spent more than a week cooped up in a box, unable to move. Man’s got a rod up his ass so far I’m surprised he can walk. You know what? Next time you ought to come with us, Seeker. Your own stick might slip a bit after a few ales.”

Cullen found this incredibly funny, chuckling, and slumping onto the large bed, enjoying the novelty of being able to stretch out for the first time in a week.

The last thing he remembered was Cassandra cursing Varric to the sound of his own cackling.

But he did sleep.

Perhaps the dwarf knew what he was talking about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time Varric enters a story it turns into a comedy. I don't think he does it on purpose, mind you. He can't help lightening things up a bit.
> 
> Heaven knows this story needs it.
> 
> It's going up and down for a bit now. Don't get seasick.


	7. Chapter 7

Cullen was fairly certain that a hangover was not supposed to last for days. It had been a while, yes, but he was positive that it should have ended by now, even if he wasn‘t as young as he used to be.

Cullen had awakened embarrassed, swearing to himself never to overindulge again, as he rode out of town with a throbbing, heavy head and the knowledge that his new armor felt strangely light.

He almost missed the weight of the heavy plate against his muscles, a barrier from the outside world, and his shield declaring to all his affiliation. Being identified as a Templar while traveling was safe, at least until recently, and anonymous. People didn’t look past the Sword of Mercy. Traveling with the Seeker and dwarf felt directionless, even with a destination in mind. He felt exposed, and adrift, he realized all at once. No holy duty, just his own conscience guiding him in the direction of the Inquisition. There was so much good they could do…

That seemed unlike something he would embrace, in retrospect. What had he been thinking? He was no idealist. Not any more.

It was a way out of Kirkwall, and the Order, and away from the temptation of… other things, he reminded himself, breaking out into a sweat even before he could think the word. He stopped his horse in the middle of the road, the mediocre beast pawing at the ground in impatience as a thought struck his brain like chain lightening, hard enough to make his still pounding head wince. As Knight-Commander, he handled lyrium distribution. If other Templars were gathering at the Temple, disassociated from the Order, then as their Commander he would be expected…

His breath came short, and he slid off the horse slowly, choking, seeing lyrium allowances where there were none. Smelling the color blue. Hearing the subtle clink of their glass vials as they nestled together. Feeling the liquid coat his throat, and fuel his abilities, shouting to be released in a storm of pure willpower.

“Commander!” The Seeker was at his side, but he couldn‘t see her. Why couldn’t he see?

“Breathe, Curly,” Varric sounded sympathetic, from wherever he was, far, far away. “Come on. Head between your knees.” A heavy hand pushed his aching head down, only to have the Seeker lift it back up and peer into his wide pupils.

“What happened?” The Seeker sounded nearly frantic, her voice echoing strangely, sitting back at what she saw in his face. “Is he…”

“He’s just a little shook up,” Varric finished, interrupting her with a brief warning look. “Don’t get all clinical, Seeker. It’ll pass. Happens to a lot of people. Fenris. Hawke. Even Junior. Breathe in, Curly. Now out. Good. Where are you?”

Cullen tried, breathing in, coughing, and then out, longer. “Kirk… no. Ferelden?” He tried to focus, and saw the tree tops, swaying ever so slightly in a dizzying fashion. He didn’t think Kirkwall had trees quite like… “Ferelden,” he concluded, still slightly unsure.

“Where are we going?” The Seeker asked, less harshly, clueing into what the dwarf was attempting.

“Hay - Haven, to the Temple,” Cullen coughed, and gagged helplessly into the dust, still hearing singing, still feeling the lyrium that shouldn‘t exist surging through his veins.

“Excellent,” she relaxed. “How old are you?”

Cullen frowned, failing to see the point of the question, but his eyes focused a little more, revealing the Seeker and Varric crouching next to him. “30, next Guardian.”

“’Bout to turn the first corner, eh, Curly?” Varric chuckled. “Younger than I thought.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Who’s better looking, Hawke or Isabela?”

“That’s enough,” the Seeker protested. “He can’t possibly answer that question.”

“Neither,” Cullen coughed, with a weak laugh, but taking a deeper breath afterward, as if to fuel it, clearing his head in the meantime. “Bad question.”

“Why, do you like men?” Varric sized him up, “Saw you checking out the tavern girl. That’s not it. Just have a type, eh? And Hawke and Rivaini aren’t it?” He nodded, “Yeah, I could see that. Both are a bit exotic, in their way.”

“Stop,” the Seeker swatted the dwarf‘s chest. “That is the Commander’s business, dwarf.”

“Just trying to keep him with us,” the dwarf grinned. “Working, isn’t it?”

It was working, Cullen was breathing smoothly now, and his head wasn’t spinning nearly as bad. Even the trees had stopped tilting drunkenly. “Seeker Pentaghast…”

“Cassandra,” she supplied firmly.

“Cassandra,” Cullen started over. “Will I have to see to lyrium… rationing?” His eyes burned with unshed tears, willing them to stay back. He wouldn’t humiliate himself like this… Not in front of them. It was already bad enough, having memories reach up and choke him randomly. They always seemed to be of lyrium…

He used to remember other things.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said, softer than he was expecting. “I imagine that the actual handling can be done by others. If you are determined to do this, we will not make it harder on you.” She took his pulse, and then shut her eyes, as she had before, and relaxed, as if she approved of what she sensed. “I would suggest that you avoid alcohol, for the near future. It appears to interfere with your humors.”

“Sorry, Curly,” Varric hardly seemed regretful, though. “Just trying to break through your shell.” He helped Cullen back to his feet. “Walk for a bit?”

“Yes,” Cullen nodded and sighed, accepting the dwarf‘s hand. “And it’s not because they’re exotic. I just don’t like…”

Cassandra had already gathered up the two horses and one pony’s reins and was stalking ahead, every step one of determination.

“You don’t like…” prompted Varric.

“Nevermind,” Cullen grumbled, realizing that confessing that he found them both annoying, to Varric, of all the people in Thedas, was a mistake. Isabela enjoyed being a hunter, and was definitely not for the likes of him, and Hawke… no. Just no.

It wasn’t like he was looking. The thought was ridiculous. And he had no desire for Varric to entangle him deliberately with some poor woman. It was a mistake to get involved with anyone right now. He hardly knew which way was up, he needed to find his footing and above all…

Above all he was the Commander of the Inquisition, or would be soon, when the Conclave failed, as fail it must. There was a lot of work to do.

As always, duty had to come first. And last. He needed to let it fill him up, and take the place of everything the lyrium had taken from him.

To work, then. He remounted the horse, and Varric struggled back onto his pony, cursing the beast.

To work.

***

His resolution was a good one, as it turned out. And absolutely necessary.

The sky exploded into jagged green, and the Temple followed with a swirl of red, and Cullen’s meager troops, made up of a few loyal Templars and recruits, and a handful of scouts, responded to his call, stumbling up the mountain to the Temple, to find it hollow and full of ashes, strangely reminiscent of the Chantry’s remains in Kirkwall.

He stared, hollow-eyed, feeling a sense of detached deja-vu before the odd green light split apart, and the demons started to pour out. Because of course it was demons.

Kirkwall had never been this bad. Kinloch hadn’t been this bad.

Not even in his worst nightmares had it ever been this bad.

More and more of his people fell, and all he could do was leave them lying in the ash and dust, while he moved to the next, not even thinking of finding Leliana, realizing that this was the nightmare; that the demons would never end.

Cassandra stumbled her way past him with a couple of scouts holding a survivor, whose hand slipped down and shone the same sickly green as the sky above him. Snarling, he attacked the next demon that came too close, fighting for every foot of their retreat, swearing revenge for his fallen men and women as he made the obvious connection. He pushed them all back behind the gate, locking the Valley of Sacred Ashes behind them, and abandoning what remained of the Temple to the demons.

The wounded and dead piled up like firewood, freezing in the mountain air, and there weren’t enough shrouds to go around.

He fought for every one of the wounded’s lives, holding bandages, since that‘s all he could do, cursing the futility of it all, but still staggering to the next, with their handful of healers and one lone surgeon.

Cassandra’s word came through, and he, despairing, entered the Valley once more, knowing that none of them were coming back alive.

He lost track of time, his mind only on the demon in front of him, and occasionally the rift, as every so often it paused, and he was able to get the next round of wounded back behind the gate above.

As his body fought, his mind drifted - the remains of the lyrium perhaps, dragging up such ancient memories - back to Solona Amell, and the first time he had fought demons, only to find her broken body in the library, the Tranquil sunburst just visible under the fringe of her hair, over her empty blue eyes, before the blood mages overcame him and hauled him to the top of the tower and imprisoned him, tortured him, letting the demons have their way…

He hadn’t thought of Solona in years. Avoided thoughts of her, pushing them away. She had been lovely, talented, sweet, naïve, and entirely too forward. An awkward, newly minted Templar hadn’t stood a chance. She tried to get him alone, her purpose clear.

He had ran away.

He found himself wishing, here, at the end of everything, that he hadn’t been such a coward.

Cowardice. That was his vice, he determined. This time, at least, he would not be a coward. He would be brave. This one time, if never before and never again. Brave until death.

With every pulse of the rift… thing, there were fewer fighters. The Inquisition was over before even before it began. Another failed Order for Cullen Rutherford to throw himself behind.

He fought back the latest demon, his mind still half on Solona‘s lyrium blue eyes.

A shriek came from behind him, and he pivoted, and sliced the demon flanking him in half, staring blankly at his savior sheathing her daggers, while she threw her hand to the sky and…

And closed the rift, as if she were mending a rip in a shirt. Her face was drawn up in pain, and her cheap daggers shone dully as she snapped her hand away and cradled it, wincing, her brownish hair falling over her eyes. The Seeker approached him, and he complimented Cassandra absentmindedly - Was this the survivor? - on closing the rift, pulling his helm off his head and meeting her eyes in shock, his hair twisting over his forehead in annoying little tickles.

Apparently, the Maker had a sense of humor, after all. A perverse one, considering. Solona’s eyes had been the blue of lyrium. He remembered that when he remembered nothing else. The survivor looked nothing like her.

It didn’t matter.

This was… inconvenient.

“It was the prisoner’s doing.” The Seeker may have continued, but he was unaware of the details.

So she was a prisoner, after all, not just a survivor. He opened his mouth and said exactly the wrong thing, as was no doubt expected to those few people that had the misfortune of knowing him. He couldn’t disappoint Varric, after all. “I hope you’re worth it. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.” He wanted to wince but could only stare blankly, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. Yes, she was a prisoner, but she had just helped - more than anyone else, and in a way that only she could. She… couldn’t be guilty of everything, if Cassandra had armed her. Could she?

“You aren’t the only hoping that,” she nearly whispered, her face falling at his harsh words. He did wince then, feeling like he had just kicked a puppy.

Who was she? He shook himself slightly. He was in charge, here. Commander of the Inquisition. He could do better than… adolescent gawking.

He pulled himself away and helped up a wounded soldier, resisting the urge to look back as he helped him limp away.

He wasn’t looking, he reminded himself. He was very busy. She was a prisoner. She had probably killed all of those people, including the Divine and what remained of his former Order and the College of Magi…

What color had her eyes been? Her hair hadn’t been red, but not really brown either, nor was it blonde… He jerked his mind away from inconsequential matters.

There was still a lot of work to do. A lot of work. People were still dying all over the mountain from rifts they hadn’t even found yet. A entire scouting party had been lost in the mining tunnels. They didn’t have enough iron for halfway decent swords, and he hadn’t found anyone to handle the lyrium distribution for the Templars yet. Perhaps Rylen? Not to mention his quartermaster was a bigot who managed to offend everyone she talked to, despite repeated warnings. Hardly ideal. He would have to ask Leliana to intervene…

He couldn’t stay focused on his work.

He couldn’t afford a distraction.

But he couldn’t stop dwelling. Even now he remembered her face dropping earnestly, and the way her hair had fallen over her eyes as she cradled her palm like an infant.

Since when were his memories ever this clear?

He hoped Varric hadn’t noticed him looking. Sweet Andraste, please grant him that much, at least.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually include a playlist of songs I listen to while I'm writing, for fun, if nothing else, but haven't for this one yet. There's a little overlap with Andraste's Asta, but not as much as you might think.
> 
> If anyone is interested, here it is:
> 
> Five Finger Death Punch 'Far From Home'  
> Breaking Benjamin 'Ashes of Eden'  
> Seether 'Broken'  
> Jason Isbell '24 Frames'  
> ... and Beyoncé's 'Halo'. And yes, that's a bit embarrassing, for Cullen as well as myself.
> 
> Don't judge. ;) Inspiration comes from everywhere. When I write Iron Bull I listen to P!nk and Taylor Swift (He doesn't care who knows, though.)!


	8. Chapter 8

He wasn’t lucky enough to have escaped Varric‘s notice.

Their meeting, three days later, after she finally woke was… problematic in the most distracting of ways. She was funny, in a self-depreciating way. Incredibly intelligent. She fed them all Inquisition history like she had learned it in her cradle. Zealots or Idealists. Was there no room in between?

Cullen fancied himself neither. The others ranged the gamut. The Lady Ambassador was the picture child of practical cynicism. Cassandra was an idealist, if there ever was one. Leliana a zealot. But he… he was like her, apparently.

An admitted heretic in contrast to his case of extreme disillusionment with the Chantry he had sworn his life in service to. An excommunicated Chantry sister who embraced her new fate happily compared to his violent rejection of his former Order. She behaved as if she had been waiting for this moment all her life. As if she was finally free. He envied her slightly. He still felt… lost, without his Order defining his life, while trying to be independent and confident for the sake of the recruits who followed him.

His chains were still heavy.

She was a noble from Ostwick. In that they were as different as twilight and dawn.

He thought nothing interesting ever came from Ostwick. He knew there were precisely no nobles that were interesting, period.

He had never met anyone he wanted to know more. Before he realized what was happening they were drinking in the tavern, her making silly toasts to the Chantry leaving her first, all his promises to himself forgotten as he watched her get tipsy on two fruity drinks.

She was enchanting.

Varric had noticed. Naturally. And confronted him, as soon as Cullen was found alone.

“Met someone, Curly?” Eyebrows that could waggle that suggestively should be outlawed.

“I’ve met several people lately, Varric,” Cullen sighed, and placed his aching forehead (the withdrawal, not a hangover - he had only had one ale) on his desk. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, just our resident Herald seems to have caught your eye,” Varric’s grin was smug. “Anything I can do to… facilitate negotiations?”

“We’ve barely spoken,” Cullen confessed, flipping through the stacks of requisition forms that Threnn had dropped off, as if looking for something. “Lady Trevelyan seems… nice.”

“Lady Trevelyan? Not the Herald?”

Cullen blushed, miserably. “She doesn’t care for the title. Either of them. But respect is necessary, it sets a precedence for the soldiers… and she doesn‘t care for her first name. She refused to allow me to call her Sister, since she‘s been stripped of her Chantry affiliation… It doesn‘t leave me with many options. I can‘t call her…”

“Asta doesn’t seem the type to stand on rank, Curly,” Varric chided. “But I’ll keep an eye on her for you. We’re headed to the Hinterlands in a day or two, apparently. The Seeker, the Herald, Chuckles and yours truly, chasing some Orlesian Mother who knows people.”

“Chuckles?” Cullen asked after a moment of thought, feeling like his mind was fracturing into tiny pieces, and then drilling into his skull. Sideways. If only the headache were not quite so persistent…

“Bald elf apostate? _Loves_ the Fade? Like _so_ much,” Varric answered facetiously. “Good stories, though. Might borrow a few.”

“Ah, Solas. Yes,” Cullen answered uncomfortably. “The one who saved… Lady Trevelyan’s life. And the Seeker thinks that including him in the party is… wise?”

“He can keep an eye on the mark. Nothing but the best companions for the Lady Herald,” Varric shrugged and leaned backwards against the desk. “Glad it’s not me with it stuck to my hand. Who knows what kind of mess that’ll cause in the long run? But Bianca and I… we’ll make sure she gets through things all right.” He paused, “You might want to spend a little time with her, before we leave. I get the distinct impression that she needs some help with her grip.”

The mental picture caused by his choice of words culminated in Cullen dropping his quill onto the floor of his tent, fumbling around looking for it, and coming up flushing. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s terrible, Curly.” Varric confided. “Worst I’ve ever seen. Liable to try to hold the blade in her fingers. Ask her to explain six ways the Chant has been changed in the last four ages, and she’ll rattle them off like she’s talking in her sleep, but damn. If you want her to come back alive, you’d better step up and take charge, or the first Templar she comes across out there is going to have her flat on her back before she can try to reason with him.”

Cullen snapped his quill between two fingers, and then stared at it, his flush deepening.

“Thought you might feel that way,” Varric chuckled. “I’ll send her your way, if I see her. I’ll probably see her. Likes to talk. Read all my books. Huge fan. Asks all the right questions, and the annoying ones too.”

“Please do,” Cullen cleared his throat. “I will make time to see her.”

“Easy, Curly,” Varric winked again and leveraged himself upright. “I think she likes you, too. Guess the chest hair’s too much for her.” He sighed loudly. “Scorned again. Somewhere out there‘s a girl that won‘t be intimidated by all this…”

Cullen stared at his desk as the dwarf’s voice drifted away, said desk piled to overflowing with a mess of reports on rifts out of the reach of the Inquisition, plus a hundred major and minor needs that needed to be addressed, and hesitated.

He shouldn’t…

But there was no lying to himself. He was going to step away from his desk and personally evaluate their Herald’s fighting skills. Not because he had to do it, himself, but because…

Because he wanted to.

For the first time in - he couldn’t remember how long - he wanted something that wasn’t lyrium. Something good. Something better. Something more than duty, or getting lost in his work enough to forget about the pain entirely.

He stood, clenching the coin still sitting between his glove and his skin. Whatever Varric said, despite her drunken words from the night before, despite everything… she didn’t want him. She couldn’t. Not if she knew…

But if she did… even if there was a remote chance… and wasn’t half the trouble with his ineffectiveness in Kirkwall due to his lack of… mingling? If he had been more open…

He could take the risk.

This time there would be no regrets.

***

With the Herald safely gone, headed to the Hinterlands, there to remain for the foreseeable future, given the strategic importance of the area, he thought perhaps he would be safe…

But no. Again, he wasn’t that lucky. She had written him a letter, better than any Mia had ever written.

No. Not to him. To all of the Inquistion‘s leadership. He shouldn’t assume that just because she directed it to him personally, that it was of a… personal nature.

She was obviously not a farmer, if a little Druffalo pond scum caused that level of horror. Her parents… had Leliana said if they had land? No matter, most nobles with farms never set foot on them unless it was to collect the rent, and sometimes not then.

But she had spent most of her life in the Chantry, he remembered vaguely, and reminded himself, yet again, to read Leliana’s report more thoroughly. She had acres of parchment on the woman and her family…

His only excuse was that he wanted to hear it from her. To ask her about her parents, if she had siblings, if she enjoyed Ostwick, all of it. Her presence on the training ground inevitably heralded an involuntary step forward from him, while he hoped (rarely in vain - perhaps that was a good sign?) that she would come find an excuse to speak to him.

Usually just a stammered ‘Is there anything I should know?” But still… she made a point of speaking to him. It meant too much.

And she had left for the Hinterlands, much to his combined relief and regret, and prevented him from learning even what he needed to know to do his work most effectively.

Their conversations had always seemed to revolve around him and the Inquisition, despite his best efforts. He was a horrible conversationalist, apparently.

He turned back to her letter, and reread it with a half smile, again and again, until the words swam in front of his eyes. A Druffalo pond. A close call. She couldn’t swim…

A stab of pain hit the base of his skull, his knees swayed and he caught himself on his desk. In a moment, he was gone - lost in the past.

_The pond, winking in the summer sun. Two boys, stripped bare, running screaming to the end of the dock and leaping off, landing with a splash and surfacing with shrieks of joy and shock at water so much cooler than the air. His brother let out a stream of words that would get his mouth washed out with soap if their mother heard him. His older sister, hand in hand with baby Ros, wading with her near the shore, their skirts looped up and tucked into their smallclothes, and scolding them for stripping entirely, instead of retaining their smallclothes like civilized people._

_Branson mooning Mia with his far too pale ass waggling freely in the air. Her gasp of horror, and immediately promising to tattle. Rosalie’s baby giggle and trying to copy her older brother._

He had nearly drowned laughing. Branson had to retrieve him from the muddy bottom when they finally realized he was missing.

Cullen collapsed in the chair, laughing at the vivid memory, fading just as slowly as his brother had surfaced with his larger brother as burden on that wonderful day. How had he forgotten? The hearty laugh trailed away and his eyes pinched in sudden tears.

_Branson slipping him one of his treasures at the end of that same dock, the night stars coming out into clear constellations. For luck, he said, though it just happened to be in his pocket._

The Templars had come for him the next day. All his possessions had been left behind in Honnleath, lost to the Blight, now. That coin now was hidden in the palm of his hand, a reminder that he used… he used to be someone. Someone worth knowing, and worrying about.

He wanted that back. To be, if not that innocent boy, splashing so that the baby would burble like a brook and Mia would scold, then someone like him. A person, instead of an armored shell. Someone that was loved.

It was the lyrium, he realized all at once. The lyrium suppressed his nightmares, but they erased all the happy memories as well. The cost… the cost wasn’t worth it. To lose that… to forget everything…

It wasn’t a matter of not deserving to forget any longer. It was a matter of not wanting to. He wanted to remember everything - good and bad. He had lost all the best parts of himself, and hadn’t even realized it was happening.

He refocused on the letter in his hand, breathing deeply, feeling the cold air hit his lungs, reminding him where he was. Not at the pond - _Was it still there? Could he find it, if he went looking?_ \- but in an extremely chilly tent in Haven, the sweat on his skin from his most recent episode freezing on contact with the air.

The letter - _her_ letter, had brought the pond back to him. A gift that he could never repay.

He reached for parchment and quill, resolving to write back.

He could do that much.

Mia’s latest letter rested unopened on his desk, but he didn’t have anything to say to her.

Not yet. Perhaps, though…

Perhaps he would find something to say. In time. His family remembered who he used to be.

He didn’t want to lose that again.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, but it doesn't fit the tone of the next at all. So it gets posted separately. A bit happier, at least?

She made him look silly.

Tripping over himself like the boy he had been back in Honnleath - that boy clearer in his mind every day - giving dandelions to what’s-her-name, blushing like a fool, and still thinking it was worth it to have her looking at him like that.

Leaving the Herald’s cabin, her ribbon favor tangled in his fingers, he remembered more, his steps ceased, and his breath quickened as he let the latest memory swallow him whole.

_A kiss behind a tree, a closed mouthed peck from a freckled neighbor, followed with a giggle and a coy glance as the perpetrator ran away, looking back as if he was supposed to chase her down to get the rest._

_Branson gagging in disgust and Mia telling their mother as if he had done something particularly horrendous._

_The smell of his mother’s shortbread, and her too rough hand in his always mussed hair, smoothing it back and smiling, ruefully, with her own memories shining in her eyes. “Shush, Mia. Our Cullen doesn’t go chasing girls. If the lady wants him, she’ll have to find him, first, and then we‘ll see if he follows gladly.” His mother winked, and he crammed two slices in his mouth at once to hide the flush of his embarrassment, the kiss nearly forgotten in the bliss of buttery sweet biscuit._

_She laughed. “And ever the gentleman, as you can see. No wonder Mistress Mabel couldn’t control herself. There’s more where that came from, Pup. Don’t choke, aye? I‘ll make sure Branson doesn‘t take them all.” She plonked a glass of buttermilk down in front of him pointedly, rolling her eyes. “Least I don’t have to worry about you knocking anyone up on the sly.” Her eyes narrowed at Branson who gagged pointedly again. “Humph. We‘ll see. You‘re that kind of trouble, Bran. No question.”_

_His father’s smirking, “They could never resist me either, Pup. Had to beat them off of me with a scythe, your Mam did. Beaten and bloody, they kept coming back, unable to resist, like magic was rising them from the dead, until…”_

_His mother swatting his father’s shoulder, and just as quickly rubbing the back of his neck, sitting on the arm of his Da’s chair with his arm around her, and her hand on his thigh, the love transparent, even after four kids, a farm and a constantly wandering Druffalo wearing them out daily, too much work despite the family old enough to help. “Don’t go lying to your son, now. You and your exaggerations.” She paused, “There were only two. And neither of them got back up after the first swing, the weak little ninnies. And it was fists, not a scythe. I didn‘t want to kill them, and your Da kept his scythe sharp.”_

_He came back to himself with a gasp, the memory so incredibly clear, and the purple ribbon she had given him still twisted around his fingers, painfully tight. He unwound it, and coiled it up, until it fit just inside his tunic pocket, a silky coil of an old memory, and a new one, besides, doubly precious._

He remembered now, how he had never wanted that life. The fatigue of constant work, plowing, planting, hoeing, weeding, harvest, mowing, turning under, only to worry all winter about weather, and bugs, and Blight…

Blight. His gut twisted. They had died, Mia said, his mother swinging a scythe against the horde that tried to take the ones she loved, while his Da used his hunting bow to cover their retreat…

He shook, and he grieved, trying not to keen his loss, just as potent as if he had just received notice from Mia yesterday. From South Reach, learning they were refugees at the Chantry there through shaky letters dotted with tears. Saved by his parents; the real heroes of the Fifth Blight, whoever the King and Queen were.

Cullen had given up everything, sacrificed even his parents, in his selfish attempt at being what they managed without even leaving home. If he had been there - a grown man, instead of a child - perhaps he could have saved them, instead.

It wouldn’t happen again, he determined, pressing his lips together stubbornly.

Not if he had anything to say about it. He pressed the ribbon into his chest again. There was, perhaps, something to lose now.

If the lady in question wasn’t just flirting. Perhaps it was too soon to tell.

 


	10. Chapter 10

_He had been right._

_It didn’t help. No matter how many times she had said the words._

_It would be so much better if someone, anyone, would just bloody listen to him in the first place. “Oh yes, Cullen is a hammer. Every problem is a nail.” Well, sometimes you didn’t need to write letters of polite complaint, or stab things in the back. Sometimes you needed to pound at them until they were nothing but shards._

_Of course, on this occasion, nothing had worked. Especially not a hammer._

_It was the third time he had prepared an offensive against the nearly impenetrable Redcliffe Castle, trying desperately to recover Leliana, long since captured by the Venatori._

_That ‘Vint magister had probably led her directly into a worse trap than any of them were expecting. His appearance, in hindsight, was far too fortuitous to be anything but careful Tevinter forethought. But at this stage, he held out no hope that she was still alive, though her ribbon, rather shredded at the edges now, still lay coiled against his heart, trapped there. Some of the time he even remembered why._

_It had been nearly a year. A year of what ifs, a year of giving into the inevitable, and watching what pitiful remnants of his life before lyrium had resurfaced, sink slowly back under the blue liquid again._

_He had had to take it. It was for Thedas. For the Inquisition. Everyone had agreed, in the end. If Cassandra had been there, she would have felt the same. But she had been lost at Redcliffe, brought along by the Lady Herald. Everyone was lost at Redcliffe._

_He took it in memory of her, and for what she had fought for, why she had left for the Castle in the first place._

_The arrows of their had caught him in the throat, and a lightening bolt arced to the back of his leg, and he fell, hearing the leg bones pop beneath him, tripping directly into the rubble of what remained of Redcliffe Castle. Unfortunately, nothing instantly fatal._

_He never had that kind of luck. The kind that lets you die quick and without pain. There was always pain._

_It hadn’t even been worth taking the lyrium, in the end._

_They forced the red down his throat, and he gagged and choked on it. Struggling to remember eyes that weren’t blue. And the feeling of quenched thirst with cold buttermilk. His memories were as fractured as his leg bones, in the end._

_Samson visited him, talking nonsense about vessels and sorrow, mocking concern at his poor health._

_He said nothing, focusing on the pool of water in his cell, and trying to remember a cool pond, instead of lyrium the same temperature as his blood. A hot day, instead of a damp prison. A woman? No. His brother. There was a coin…_

_He must have said the last word out loud, his voice croaking with disuse, and his former roommate startled, “What use…” Samson laughed at him. “Well, if that’s your last request, Knight-Commander, Ser.” He dug into his pocket and flipped a coin into the puddle where he couldn‘t reach it, the ripples spreading out and lapping at the edges. “Have a silver. I always was generous, wasn’t I? I shared with you when you were in need. And you shared and shared alike, in your guilt at having me kicked out of the Order,” he sneered. “They tell me you’ll be solid crystal in a few weeks. The red does tend to build quicker, in those of us who… indulged on a regular basis. Higher tolerance, I s’pose. Mages and Templars - it doesn’t matter, in the end. We all succumb to the song. I’m a bit better than the priests at judging though - I give you three days.” Samson thrust his face closer, so that Cullen was forced to look him in his reddened eyes through the bars of his cell door. “You were taking more than I ever did. I asked Rylen. Good man. Good friend. Better soldier. Didn‘t last long enough. Damn shame.”_

_He died, screaming for the song to stop._

He woke from the dream, sweating and craving in the makeshift loft in his room at Skyhold, the aftermath of his unintentional Smite echoing in his limbs, cold winter light streaming down through the open ceiling, and a chilly drifting of snow on his unnecessary blankets, shoved down to the end of the bed by his kicking feet. Cold instead of the burning hot of red lyrium. A welcome distraction.

He didn’t understand the dream. It had felt so real… they were rarely that vivid.

But what it meant was that Cassandra and Bull were right. He had to tell her, to face the consequences. Soon.

It was far too early to rise, but he did anyway. She was due back, today. He would be ready, when she arrived. It was not as if the symptoms were unbearable. He could endure lack of sleep. The nausea he had been enduring for months. Likewise the muscle pain, headaches and…

He had been in worse pain in Kinloch. That torture was beyond anything, and compounded by the withdrawals as well, his lyrium denied by mages while he was trapped in his prison. The withdrawals alone… he would overcome them, knowing that he had fresh air to breathe and the freedom to move.

He could do this. For himself.

But the Inquisitor deserved to know that it wasn’t as bad as anyone had feared. They could do a lot of good, with this information. Maybe there were more like him, men and women, his brothers and sisters who wanted to be free, to be more than their dependence, and most of all, to _remember_.

His memories were the sweetest gift he had ever been given. They made everything worth it.

She would understand, he promised himself, hoping desperately that he was right. Understand why it was so important, for him, for every former Templar trying to find a place in their new world without Circles and the Order to monitor their lives.

_Sweet Andraste, let her understand. We were all someone else, once._

 


	11. Chapter 11

They were playing chess, the garden a riot of flowers, the scent of burning incense from the little Chantry drifting towards them on a slight breeze. She was asking questions, questions that at first confused and then broke something open in his mind, like cracking an egg.

“Where did you learn to play chess? Was it in the Circle?”

“I don’t…” but in a flash, he did remember. “I don’t know when, but I remember playing with my sister…” the memories drifted over him, as sweet as the honeysuckle climbing up the walls of the stone gazebo.

_Mia’s face when she won, smug and irritating as she gloated. Practicing with Branson, determined to beat her, to replace her self-satisfied expression with one of respect and humility, his goal the same for weeks, as he ignored everything else in favor of accomplishing it, much to his mother‘s irritation when he forgot to feed the chickens. Again._

_His fantasy of Mia’s new found meekness hadn’t transformed into reality. His sister was furious, accused him of cheating, and demanded a rematch._

_He won again, fair and square, and Mia announced she was never playing with him again, flouncing away with her cheeks flushed in anger and bitterness to tattle to their Mam, just to be told not to be a bad sport, and that if they had finished, she could wash the luncheon dishes instead, and didn’t those chickens still need to be fed? The last said in a voice pitched to be overheard by two young eavesdroppers._

_He and Branson exchanged satisfied looks while wandering off to get their chores done - some of them neglected for far too long in favor of fueling the grudge match._

_He beamed as he announced his triumph to his Da after supper, and puzzling over Mia‘s anger. His father, looking over his almanac, pipe in hand, had informed him, “Son, you’ve got a lot to learn about women. Well done, though. Can I have the next game?” His father had beaten him soundly, but he hardly minded._

His hands shook over the chessboard now. Would she… would Asta be angry if he won? He looked up, trying in vain to read her, and catching Dorian‘s eyes from where the mage was lurking and prompting. Perhaps she’d be angrier if he lost on purpose… but Dorian had said to let her win. Why?

Dorian was her best friend, except perhaps for Cassandra. Surely he would know about her, if not about women in general? She wasn’t much like his sister.

Thank the Maker for mercies big and small.

She wasn’t a bad player, in any case. Throwing the game wouldn’t be obvious. Where had she learned?

But she had moved on, asking about his family, since he had left the door open, before he could turn the question back upon her.

At least he had finally written Mia. Her approval gleamed, though it dropped again when he confessed how little he actually did write.

He wrote to her more often than he ever had Mia. Apparently she had no idea how much of his attention she commanded. He needed to fix that. He wrinkled his forehead, wondering how, precisely he could make her aware, while pretending to study the board and keeping an eye on Dorian‘s increasingly confusing signals from the nearby bush.

She could have him checkmated in three moves, or six if he countered properly. There was still one way he could win… but it would be pyrrhic. She probably hadn’t seen it.

He was tired of pyrrhic victories. He’d rather retreat and live to fight another day. There was too much to lose now. This game wasn’t about winning chess. If he played this game right, there would be years of rematches. Some of which he might love losing, fair and square, given how well she played.

His heart pounded, but he toppled his king deliberately in her favor.

As it turned out, the victor still received a kiss, and the defeated as well. And for once, no haunting memory reached up to drag his attention away from her reward.

This one was hers.

And by the time she confessed she knew he had thrown the game, it didn’t matter.

***

He had thought himself free of his chains too soon. All his skeletons and ghosts swelled up, pressing at him to remember and never, ever forget.

_Solona, dead in the Circle, the Tranquil sunburst too bright on her pale face._

_The glowing magic walls of a too small prison, taunted by the worst versions of every mage he had ever known, demons in disguise, and reality too far beyond his reach. The pain of his torture racking over his limbs when the demons lost their ability to fool him._

The memories tumbled over his lips, spilled out in front of her, a macabre puddle of the worst memories of his past and she…

She had held him, and he felt stronger. Solid. Real. She drew him back into the present, and kept him there, where he couldn’t abuse himself over past decisions instead of making new ones here and now.

She claimed to be his. He didn’t want to own her, but…

His belongings were few, even months after leaving the Templars. One small coin. A sheaf of throwing daggers - a present from Rylen on his thirtieth nameday. A raven with a white feather, likewise a gift from Leliana. His armor. His helm. Two bookcases full of books, slowly being added to as he found titles that interested him, or Varric snuck them onto his shelf when he wasn‘t looking, knowing that he rarely slept through the night. And a lyrium kit, best ignored.

He had left the dagger in his desk in the Gallows, as evidence of his choice to leave the darker thoughts behind with his Order. A resolution that was easier to make symbolically than in truth. But he didn’t leave behind the kit. The what-ifs had crowded his mind while he packed, but he had been half surprised to see that it had made its way into his luggage, tucked securely into his bag, where it would stay protected, when he finally unpacked once the Breach was made stable. It still seemed like a part of him, if a part that he wished he could destroy entirely.

And yet _she_ held him tight against the nightmares, waking and sleeping and everything in between. He had done nothing in his life to deserve this.

He wanted nothing more than to be free. Not lyrium. Not forgiveness. Not even her. Nothing.

The strength of that conviction anchored him. Kept him fighting when the bottle made him shake. Kept him concentrating on his desk work, on training the (her) troops, as tangible evidence of his regard and determination that he could be more without lyrium than with. To prove that her faith in him wasn’t misplaced.

On the worst days, the kit screamed at him in a discordant melody that twisted everything he believed about himself on his best days. Shouted that if he truly… cared for her, he’d take it, to ensure her victory, guarantee the future she dreamed of. But his selfish desire to be free pulled him back every time he took it out. Back to the present, where he realized progress had been made, step by infinitesimal step.

A slow swelling of a dim memory rose to the front of his mind as he stared at it today, as he struggled to make the choice for what seemed the thousandth time.

_His Da, again, weary from work, but determined to make his Mam smile after a day of taking care of a sick baby Rosalie on top of the rest of them. A song, and as far from the ethereal music of lyrium as it was possible to be. Suggestive and subtle, sweet and loving, in a voice roughened from disuse, but honest in emotion and purer in tone than you would expect from a simple man._

_His tired Mam, blushing at the stove while Ros sniveled, his Da keeping an eye on her so that they could all eat before midnight, he and Mia and Branson scrambling to set the table and cover a larger part of the meal so that their mother wouldn‘t fret about how far behind she was._

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. His mother was fair, her hair faded. The song was… he lost the memory, shaking his head in frustration, but remembered something different.

_A summer garden, climbing roses shedding petals everywhere, and Branson claiming they stunk up the place, pretending to sneeze as he shoved his way through the door, leaving it wide open, Mia instantly scolding him for being careless. His mother singing now, not as melodically as his father had, but remembered more clearly for the flaws in her voice. Beauty in the imperfection._

He came back into himself again, breathing calmly, used now to being at the whim of his own memories until they released him at last. He knew how to tell her. Tell everyone. He would give her a different song, a weaker one, but he would sing it forever if she would let him.

He’d look a fool, but it was worth it. The troops would love it, in any case. Sera would claim it made him people.

Once the elf had finished laughing, anyway.

 


	12. Chapter 12

The lyrium kit was loud again today. He curled around himself in bed, the nightmare he could have sworn he had woken up from still too vivid in his mind to be anything but real.

The nightmare was familiar.

But it wasn’t Solona Amell any longer.

_No lyrium blue eyes, cool and calm, with a focus he had only seen in the Circle, but the Inquisitor’s, brown and grayish-blue and almost always laughing, at least when he was there. He liked to think that sometimes it was for him. Silky red locks that begged you to touch them had given way to brownish flyaway hair always pulling free from however she attempted to hold it back._

_She was lovely, whether in his mind or right in front of him._

_And in the dream, there were no quiet gasps to keep people from noticing what they were doing, hidden out of sight, but loud enthusiastic moans that couldn’t be contained even in the privacy of their own chambers._

It was so much better, and as a result, far worse. He had woken, panicked, convinced that the demons had stolen her face, another unconscious Smite unleashed from his body, even while aching for a release that he dare not allow himself.

It led him into an argument with Cassandra that was really an argument with the kit, dragging it out afterward to sit on his desk, where he sweated, staring at it, waiting and praying Cassandra or Asta would come after him, to talk him out of it. He couldn’t say no to it, not this time. Too much had happened, too many people had died for his selfishness.

Sweet Andraste, let them come talk him out of it.

If he was a better man it wouldn’t be so hard. He wouldn’t have to depend on anyone. He would have left the box behind in Kirkwall, and that final vial it contained. Or better yet, he wouldn’t struggle at all. He would bury himself in his faith, so long neglected, trusting to the Maker to pull him through, or take his life, if that’s what He demanded.

But he was too weak to give it. Too weak not to struggle. Too cowardly…

He snarled at the kit, and threw it. A moment after, he realized he had almost _hit_ her, the box a mess of splinters and broken hinges against the wall of his office. His apology wasn’t enough, though she brushed it off entirely.

Broken at last and beyond repair. He felt only relief.

She had come.

But the last vial, the one he had never taken, was still on his desk. Between them, as it would ever be. He hardly understood his own words, spitting them out, throwing that final vial as far away from him as his shaking hands could manage. Those same bloody hands aching, his head full of sharp pains as he abused them both against his walls, against his bookshelves, restlessly seeking punishment for a lifetime full of sins that he was completely unable to forget since he had stopped taking it.

He should be taking it.

He didn’t want to.

But he should be taking it. For her. For all of them, the ones he kept losing because he wasn‘t strong enough.

She told him it was about him, not the Inquisition.

He had no idea how one person could be everything so good, so pure, in all the world. She had her faults, of course, but… right now, he couldn’t see any of them. His vision, grey and weathered around the edges, was filled with this nearly perfect being making him a bed on the floor. Why eluded him, exactly, in the mess of his guilty thoughts.

A nest, made up of his blankets. Having tea and toast brought, the lyrium cleaned up, making him lie down, since he couldn‘t climb his ladder.

The gentle sound of her voice reading some benign literature while he let it drift him away gently, the sound easing him into a restful sleep, more comforting than any Chant, if far less holy.

And he dreamt, but this time, he dreamt of his brother, not of her.

_The summer they had insisted on sleeping in their makeshift fortress in the woods behind their farm more often than not, scratchy wool blankets always wet with dew, and both of them shivering and cold as they stumbled back in the house every morning, rumpled and probably far too early for breakfast._

_Mia sniggered at the leaves and twigs caught in his hair, Branson joining in with scrambled, tired laughter, confirming all suspicions that he did, in fact, look a fright. His mother combed them free with gentle impatience, sipping on the tea she couldn‘t spare time to sit down with, even this early in the morning._

_The oven kept the kitchen so cozy, and the smell of the day’s bread as it came out of the oven nearly overpowered him. He was starving, like he hadn’t been in… he couldn’t remember how long, his current body‘s memory and the child version of himself overlapping in an odd juxtaposition that he couldn‘t explain while still caught in the Fade. His mother slid a slice, still steaming, the white butter melting against it in a cloudy pool, and honey drizzled over the top._

_He had never been so warm, felt so loved, so cared for._

When he woke, it was to the early light of dawn, and to the sight of someone else’s messy hair tossed over the adjoining pillow that had always been empty before. All night? He swallowed hard, marveling at the nature of his luck. He slipped out of the bed, knowing that he wouldn‘t be able to resist touching her if he stayed, to pad out to the battlements, barefooted against freezing stone - the shock enough to wake him up the rest of the way - to breathe deep of that morning air, filled with the scent of icy dew. It was peace.

First she gave him back the memory of the pond, and now… she gave him peace.

He had to take her to the pond, he realized, after Halamshiral, to try to express everything. Perhaps it would be easier there? After they could find a moment to breathe, away from the endless nobles, the demanding innocents that weighed on her so heavily, no matter how many friends were there trying to shoulder some of the balance.

While he thought and planned, she found him there, looking out at the dawn over the mountains, lost in thoughts of Varric’s books, of lady knights in shining armor, and the common men they loved, all remnants of the story she had read him the day prior, perversely not leaving out a single naughty bit.

She was as much his savior as he was her shield, no matter what weapon she wielded.

He hardly knew what he said to her, but they made his way back to his office, and he lowered her down, intent on showing her, since all his words failed.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it was a start.

And the dream of two nights before had been a lie. It was all, far, far, better than he could ever have imagined, or any demon could conjure. The taste of her on his lips, the warmth of her under his hands, the sounds she would make… The gentle nature of her drawing him out of himself so that all that remained was Cullen.

He had to take her to the pond.

For now, all he wanted was to hold her, as she fell back asleep in his arms.

He would give her the coin. She wouldn’t understand its importance, perhaps, but he knew. His two most precious treasures belonged together - both of them had saved him at the darkest times of his life. He would still have her ribbon, after all.

He was safe with her favor.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Cullen wrote to Mia.

A longer letter, not speaking of lyrium or any of his struggles, but talking, in a muted way, about his work and his conviction that they were doing the right thing.

He had called the Inquisitor by her first name - not a mistake on his part, but a calculated testing of the waters. His sister - in her eerily quick reply - had pounced on the apparent slip, calling him out.

_Don’t pry,_ he had replied the same day, insinuating that there was definitely something to unearth, knowing that his sister was incapable of doing anything but prying, playing their odd game where she tracked him down and attempted to drag him home. How many years had they been playing?

She would be shocked, and then would marshal her forces, go on the offense.

Perhaps in the next letter he would do it again, and share a few other things, as well. Piecemeal them out in a gentle manner, feeding her little details like a baby bird, driving her insane with her inner urge to know absolutely everything about his life. The perfect defense and a well planned offense.

If he went home, it would be on his terms, not hers.

Perhaps he could prepare Mia for the idea of him bringing a noblewoman home to meet them, if he did it gradually enough? Surely they wouldn’t be too put-off?

Who was he kidding?

On her part, she had shared the birth of his second nephew, and how the first was singularly unimpressed with his younger brother, stating that he had wanted a Mabari instead - reminding him of how he had claimed something similar when Branson was born. How his sister in law was doing well, and his brother was running ragged with lack of sleep while she recovered. If he undershared, she overshared, giving him the kind of minutiae he would never remember.

He didn’t really mind. He smiled at her description of Rosalie, a grown woman now. Branson’s thriving business and messy house, Grace driven to distraction trying to keep it clean with Branson’s cluttered packrat ways, and utterly giving up in the exhaustion that having a newborn and an active child had brought into her life.

He didn’t have to guess that Mia had been over every day to help out, no matter that she didn’t say as much. His sister couldn’t sit still, and he hoped his sister in law was the sort to accept help gracefully.

He wanted to visit, he realized with a sudden shock. Wanted to see who Ros had grown into, what Branson was like now that he was all grown up with a family of his own. Wanted to meet his sister in law and hopefully convince her that he didn’t deserve all the epithets Mia had thrown at him over all the years as he disappeared time and time again.

He could hear the relief in her letter, at the length of his own. Even as she teased him about it.

It served her right that all she got back was ‘Don’t pry’. Two words, when her hopes were high enough to fall.

Perhaps the next time he would write to Branson, instead, and drop three times as much information, without being prodded to share. He might even tell him about…

No, that was too sweet to share, just yet. Some things should be private. The gossip would reach even them in time. Perhaps even before he was willing to share.

Mia could wait.

 


	14. Chapter 14

There was a pattern now to the night before a battle. A prayer before a shrine, a repetition of words that had started to mean something again pushing over his hesitant lips, his memory imperfect, perhaps, but his will purer than it had been in decades.

Sometimes he still forgot where he was, especially when praying. The small Chantry in Honnleath with the faithful reciting an imperfect version of what little they remembered, flickering to the room at Kinloch, mages and Templars listening and saying the Chant in harmony, occasionally even the Chantry in Kirkwall, where voices of the Exalted raised in the purest version he could ever remember hearing, but most often he remained here now, where his was the only voice repeating the hallowed words, more often than not.

Memorial services came after the battle, with the verses of Trials drifting up with the smoke of pyres and incense. Now, when he mourned the lost, he mourned his parents, his brothers at Kinloch, the mages that he had failed, the innocents who had died in every conflict, the soldiers he had sent to their deaths…

And he mourned Anders. The mage had been the most recent addition to the list, but as Mother Giselle spoke the words recommending their people to the Maker‘s attention on the other side of the Veil, his mind drifted back, to the night Hawke had killed him for his crime.

One more life on his hands. One more to commend to the Maker and his bride. He had yet to remember all of them. Wondered if he ever would. He wondered if Hawke struggled like this, with all the blood she had spilt.

From what Varric said, he suspected she did. He pitied Hawke her memory, if it was better than his.

He allowed himself to remember, not trying to block it, so that it wouldn’t overwhelm him, but gently eased into the memory that he wished to recall.

_Anders as the frequent escapee from the Tower, his smart mouth getting him into trouble with both Templars and his own senior enchanters. The man confessing in quiet whispers to a friend that he had found a cat, and was keeping it, feeding it on scraps and whatever mice it could catch on its own._

_A few times he set aside leftovers when he was on kitchen duty, leaving them out where either the cat or a nimble-fingered mage could find them. Not enough, and not every time he had kitchen duty. He didn’t remember every time, even then._

_His brothers had taken bets on how the young man would disappear this time, and how soon they would find him. Their laughter when they confessed that the cat had attacked them viciously, but at least one brother’s painful admission that he still made sure the animal went with him to the cells._

_It was a very lonely place to be. None of them understood that kind of loneliness, in the close quarters of the Templar barracks._

_Anders making impassioned arguments in Kirkwall about the Tranquil solution, colored with his own loss of Karl, a cruel weapon wielded by Meredith in an attempt to trap the Darktown healer at last. Somehow he managed to smuggle his manifesto into the Circle, causing a massive stir._

_Meredith had raged for weeks before she had gently inquired about Cullen’s past service at Kinloch. He had given her the bare minimum, staring blankly when he didn’t wish to answer the question. It had been too much information already._

_Karl appearing as a Tranquil in the Kirkwall Circle had been a massive shock. He could only imagine how distraught Anders had been…_

_Staying silent hadn’t been enough, in the end. Definitely not for Anders._

Neither of them could afford to stay silent.

Anders wasn’t designed for Circle life, however brilliant a mage. Cullen had heard that he had become a Grey Warden, but had left them, too. Was it a reluctance to conform to rules, or was it a sign of something more pernicious in the Wardens themselves? Anders had embraced Justice before moving to Kirkwall, he knew, but the Grey Wardens didn’t have a reputation of being picky. Did they ever just let people go after they didn’t need them anymore?

That didn’t fit with what he knew of the Warden Order.

His mouth continued to form the words of the Chant, head bowed, but he tilted his chin upwards, squinting to keep the tears back, staring blankly at Andraste, and praying desperately that she heard him.

He failed, but by the time the drops slipped past his lids he didn’t care.

He owed Anders the tears. A better sacrifice than his own blood.

He was sure Hawke would agree with him on this, if on nothing else. Anders’ death would weigh on her as well. Perhaps even more heavily, as she had wielded the dagger that killed him. That was hard to believe.

Asta found him there, in the Chantry long after the Mother had finished, still kneeling, and he struggled, again, to communicate just how precious, how important she was to him. How she had to return… to prove that it was all worth it. How her own sacrifice would be…

Too much. Too far. He embraced her, desperate to feel her against him, to understand that this was real, to give him something to remember if…

But she would come back, he reminded himself. She must.

Or he’d lose everything, all over again. She had his luck, but who needed it more, now? Surely Andraste would protect her Herald, no matter what she personally believed, or whatever unworthy man claimed to love her.

He needed the kind of luck that brought her back. Kept her chain of narrow escapes forming, and the line of victories growing.

He was beginning to forget how many times she had been brought back from certain doom.

He had to send her to face _him_ … he forced himself to stop thinking.

Varric was convinced she had Divine Bad Luck. The dwarf had a go at convincing all of them that Asta was her Herald because Divine Bad Luck (always capitalized) was “kind of Andraste’s thing.” The thought had made him shudder after Adamant, while Asta recovered from the scars left on her mind by the Fade. That kind of luck wasn’t a blessing. Just as being Andraste’s Herald was a curse.

Perhaps Cullen should have looked elsewhere, back when he might still have had an option of putting up more walls, embracing his duty instead of her… But perhaps he never had a choice at all. He glanced back up at Andraste, and this time said a prayer, not just for her safety, but of gratitude, of gifts given before a person could ask.

If he was honest with himself, he had no doubt that he had been meant for this, for her.

He let that certainty fill him. His whole life had led him here. Andraste had led him to lead her Herald’s armies, to stand by her side. Perhaps it hadn’t all been a waste, if that was true.

That night he left out his scraps of dinner on a tray outside his door, rubbing his neck while Cole smiled at him from where he kicked his heels against the battlements, before crossing the bridge to the main hall to join the rest of the victory celebration, where hopefully she would still be awake and waiting for him.

Somewhere in Skyhold, perhaps, there was a cat that might need them.

It felt right to make the gesture. Not just in memory of Anders.

But in memory of who he used to be.

Who he was now was - perhaps - better. Now he was a man who talked to people, be they mage or Templar or mundane, a man who wrote to his family enough to be teased by them, a man with a faith that could not be broken with torture, his mind with betrayal, or his body with addiction, a man with a woman who loved him, thought him worthy of love…

“He used to be kind, once,” he had said to Asta, throwing his daggers into his training dummy, frustrated not so much with her decision to send Samson to Kirkwall for judgment, but with his own poor decisions - for taking that damned vial back in Kirkwall in the first place. For letting the lyrium change him, erase who he used to be before Kinloch.

The same could be said of him. “It could have been me,” he had confessed next, and watched her face crease in worry, thinking he was talking about the red lyrium, about serving Corypheus.

She hadn’t understood. Not exactly. She hadn’t known him in Kirkwall, when he was nothing but the blank slate and the time until his next dose, full of his false sense of duty, valor, righteousness. He thanked the Maker for that small mercy.

It _had_ been him.

He was kind, once.

With Andraste’s Grace, he would be, again.

Whatever happened next.

　

　

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading along on this little departure from my usual style. It was difficult to write in places, but that means it was stretching my skills. I hope it was enjoyable, and not too dark!
> 
> I had heard a lot of complaints that Cullen in Inquisition was too far different from Cullen in DA2, and when DA2 came out, there were complaints that he was too different from Origins. But who is a person, without their memories? Take them away and what is left? Lyrium does that - takes away memories, good and bad.
> 
> Now, canon doesn't exactly say that you get them back when you stop taking the lyrium, but such a thing would explain, perhaps, any inconsistencies in Cullen's behavior - in my opinion, his Inquisition character was more like him at the beginnings of Origins. As he was before Uldred marked him.
> 
> As Cole says to him in a note carried by a runner, 'You stayed you.' For Cullen, I think that was what he needed most to hear.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read. Not many comments on this one, and that always makes me nervous - but I know that writing it made me think and grow. I'm always trying to get better.


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